


The Forget Me Not Affair

by Rose_of_Pollux



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Temporary Amnesia, bit of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 10:26:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7044628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rose_of_Pollux/pseuds/Rose_of_Pollux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Napoleon is stricken with amnesia during a mission gone awry, Illya takes it upon himself to look after him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Forget Me Not Affair

The visions in his dreams had been blurry—but the same—for nights now. It was always the same sequence of events that he simply couldn’t discern through the fog in his head: a loud, deafening crack that sounded like thunder, followed by a pungent smell, and a loud, desperate scream, and then everything had gone dark…

Once again, he awoke with a start, scrambling so that he sat upright in the bed he was in, gasping for breath.

“Mr. Solo?”

“Napoleon?”  
It took him a moment to realize that the two speakers—one an elderly man smoking a pipe, and the other a young blond man—were addressing him as he continued to sit in the bed that seemed to be in a medical ward.

“You… you were talking to me?” Napoleon asked.

“ _Da,_ ” said the blond. “It is still as I told you before. You are Napoleon Solo. I am Illya Kuryakin, and this is Mr. Alexander Waverly. We work together for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.”

“…You keep saying that,” Napoleon said, dejectedly, as he glanced at his feet. “You’ve been saying that for a week now. And I’m really sorry, but I just can’t remember either of you—or the organization.”

“Keep trying to remember, Mr. Solo,” Waverly said, kindly. “With a bit of luck, your memory will return to you.”

“And it case it does not do so on its own, we have our best doctors looking into our vast array of memory restoration methods.” Illya said. “They will find the method that will work best for you.”

Napoleon looked at the one called Illya. He seemed a lot less confident than Waverly—and he seemed a lot more upset by what was happening.

“Were you having that dream again, Mr. Solo?” Waverly asked.

“Y-yeah, I was,” Napoleon admitted, still trying to grasp that his name was Napoleon Solo. What on Earth had possessed his mother to name him that!? He pushed the thought aside and tried to recall the dream. “Everything was fuzzy, though—even in the dream.”

“It would seem that your memory is locked deep within your subconscious,” Illya said. “You cannot remember it fully until it is returned to your conscious mind. Is there nothing else you can recall from your dream?”

“I think there was a thunderstorm…” Napoleon said. “And someone got scared by it—there was screaming. And then I just… blacked out.”

“There _was_ a thunderstorm the night you lost your memory,” Illya said, with a nod. “However, we…” He paused as Waverly cleared his throat. “You were being held in a soundproofed room; they claimed you wouldn’t hear it.”

“They?”

“THRUSH.”

“Oh,” Napoleon said. “That’s the group you said was responsible for my memory loss. You said they did something.”

“ _Da_ , that is right,” Illya said. “They had captured you—they must have done something to you while questioning you for information.”

“You said _we_ were in that soundproofed room a moment ago,” Napoleon said. Even without his memory, he was still as sharp as a tack. “You were there, too?”

Illya hesitated, and looked to Waverly, who shrugged and nodded.

“ _Da_ , we were both captured by THRUSH. Mr. Waverly and I both agreed we do not want you worrying about me when you have your memory to worry about.”

“Are you alright!?” Napoleon asked. His heart monitor spiked, prompting Illya to gently hold his shoulders.

“You must remain calm, Mr. Solo,” Waverly said, gently but firmly. “The doctors have made it clear that a stress response will likely complicate the recovery of your memory even further.”

“I am fine, Napoleon,” Illya said, still holding onto Napoleon’s shoulders. “Please… just relax.”

Napoleon inhaled and exhaled until he did calm down. Illya sighed, as well, and looked to Waverly apologetically.

“I am sorry,” he said.

“Try not to let things slip like that again, Mr. Kuryakin,” he said. “We cannot afford to let him worry when it might have adverse effects on his recovery.”

Napoleon frowned, wondering for how long Waverly was going to keep the details of what had happened from him. But any queries he had were preempted by the arrival by two of the Medical wing’s doctors.

“Good news, I hope?” Waverly asked them.

“It is difficult to say, Mr. Waverly,” one of the doctors said. “Mr. Solo’s amnesia does not to appear to be caused by any physical trauma, nor was it caused by any sort of amnesia-inducing drug. Indeed, it would make little sense for THRUSH to purposefully inflict amnesia when they were trying to extract information from him.”

“Then why did he lose his memory?” Illya asked.

“Though Mr. Solo wasn’t given any drugs that caused amnesia specifically, his initial blood tests from after his rescue showed that he had a rather alarming cocktail of drugs in his system,” the other doctor said.

“That still does not make any sense,” Illya said. “I was given the same cocktail—why is my memory intact?”

“Mr. Kuryakin!” Waverly chided, and Illya flinched, quickly looking to Napoleon in concern to make sure that his heartrate wasn’t going to spike again. 

Napoleon forced himself to remain calm, hoping that he could prove that he could handle being told the details.

“We are aware of that,” the other doctor continued. “We have reason to believe that something caused a great deal of emotional shock to Mr. Solo that, in his drugged state, induced his amnesia.”

“The thunder…” Napoleon murmured. “Maybe I was struck by lightning?”

“You would have had the physical trauma to show for it if you had been,” Illya said.

“Well, you were there; didn’t you see what happened to me?” Napoleon asked.

Illya avoided his gaze now, looking at the floor.

“We were separated,” he said, quietly. “They came and took me out of the room after they had drugged the both of us. The next time I saw you, it was here in Medical, after we’d both been extracted. And you did not know me.” He fell silent, trying not to think of how painful it had been to see Napoleon staring at him with the expression that one would cast upon a stranger. “But never mind that; hopefully, they have a cure for you now.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Kuryakin, as it is neither physical nor drug-induced amnesia, there is little we can do in the way of using our memory-recovery pills,” the first doctor said. “We could schedule a hypnotherapy session for Mr. Solo; that might be the most effective treatment for him.”

“When is the soonest you can schedule him for this treatment?” Waverly asked.

“In about a week, Sir,” the other doctor said. “We’ve moved Mr. Solo up the priority list.”

“Some priority list,” Illya muttered. He then spoke up. “And is Napoleon to be stuck here in Medical for another week? I feel as though if he returned to the flat, the familiar surroundings might aid in recovering his memory, as well.”

“Well, it certainly wouldn’t hurt,” Waverly agreed, and he looked to the doctors, who nodded in agreement. “Very well, Mr. Kuryakin; I’ll leave Mr. Solo in your capable hands. I am certain you will look after him.”

“What about telling me what happened?” Napoleon asked. “It would also make sense that telling me what happened might help me bring my memory back.”

Illya and Waverly both looked to the doctors.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to give him some of the details,” the first doctor said. “But nothing that would stress him—that could be damaging to his recovery.”

“So you have told us,” Illya began, with a sigh.

“Could be?” Napoleon repeated. “Then, you’re not sure. Stress might end up curing me, for all you know.”

“While that is possible, stress is likely to cause more harm than good,” the other doctor said. “Hypnotherapy would be the safest option for you.”

“Very well, then,” Waverly said. “Mr. Kuryakin, you are permitted to explain some of the details to Mr. Solo, but nothing that would be too upsetting.”

“I understand, Sir,” Illya said, with a nod.

Napoleon sighed to himself; he wasn’t sure just what victory he had won, but he knew he had won some small victory. And even though he had no memories of this blond called Illya, something deep within him told him that he could trust him to speak the truth, and as much of it as he could.

Illya had been the first person Napoleon had seen upon gaining consciousness in Medical—he had obviously been there for a while.

_“Napoleon!” he had exclaimed. “You are finally awake! Are you hurting anywhere? Do you feel alright?”_

_And Napoleon, who had been slightly alarmed by the close proximity of this unfamiliar blond, had backed away as much as the bed had allowed._

_“Ah… I’m sorry… Who are you?”_

_Illya had looked as though Napoleon had struck him._

_“Napoleon, it’s me; it’s Illya!”_

_“…Illya…?” he had repeated, utterly baffled. “…And who’s Napoleon?”_

_“You are! You are Napoleon Solo of U.N.C.L.E., and I am Illya Kuryakin—your partner!”_

_“Partner?” Napoleon had asked. “But you… you’re Russian.”_

_“Da, I am. That has never mattered to you before.”_

_“Really? What year is this?”_

_“…It is 1968.”_

_“And my name is Napoleon?”_

_“Da.”_

_“And you are Russian—and my partner?”_

_“Da.”_

_And though everything logical had told him that an American and a Russian being partners in 1968 was unlikely, something in the way Illya had said it—the genuine concern in his voice and his face—had been enough for Napoleon to believe him._

Napoleon was jolted back to the present by Illya’s hand on his shoulder.

“I shall drive you home,” he said, quietly.

Napoleon gave a nod.

“Thanks,” he said, quietly.

**************************************

The both of them had been hoping that the familiar sights of home would help ring some bells, but Napoleon seemed to be exactly the same as he walked from room to room of the apartment.

“Anything coming back to you?” Illya asked.

“No,” Napoleon sighed. “It’s beginning to feel hopeless.” He looked into closets and cupboards, hoping that something, somewhere, would trigger his memory. He frowned as he saw a laundry basket in his closet—among the fashionable shirts inside it was a black turtleneck sweater. He pulled it up, holding it to his chest and confirming that it seemed a size small for him.

“Oh, that’s mine,” Illya said, with a wan smile. “It was your week for laundromat duty. Given the circumstances, I will take care of it.” 

Napoleon blinked.

“You live here, too?”

“ _Da_ ; when I first arrived in America, you helped me get the flat next door,” Illya said. “About three years ago, we both decided that it was a good idea for us to share an apartment—one of the many reasons being situations such as this. Our work is dangerous, and we get injured often. And it is always preferable to recuperate here under each other’s watchful eyes rather than the purgatory of Medical.”

Napoleon glanced at him now, recalling how Illya had been by his side constantly ever since Napoleon had regained consciousness.

“We were close, weren’t we?” he asked, softly.

Illya blanched at his usage of the past tense, but nodded.

“Quite,” he agreed.

“I’m sorry,” Napoleon added, seeing the hurt look in Illya’s eyes. “This must be painful for you.”

“There is no need to concern yourself with me,” Illya said, forcing a smile. “Why don’t you sit down? I’ll make you some tea. You always like my Russian tea.”

“Oh… Thanks; I could use some tea…”

Illya glanced back at Napoleon as he sat on the sofa with his chin propped on his hand, staring vaguely out the window. The Russian retreated to the kitchen and, once alone there, dropped his façade and allowed himself a moment of weakness.

It _hurt_. Even though he knew it wasn’t Napoleon’s fault that he couldn’t remember, it still hurt to see Napoleon treat him as a stranger—as though the last eight years had never happened. Illya had been confident that his own stoic-ness would make the pain a nonissue, but the Russian had found himself unexpectedly falling victim to his emotions—something that very rarely happened, and something that Illya had not thought to happen, considering he had his own injuries to contend with. And yet, the piercing pain in his left shoulder was nothing compared to his emotions. Perhaps Illya should have known better than to think that he could keep his emotions in check after spending eight years with Napoleon; not even the Ice Prince of U.N.C.L.E. was immune to emotions, however much he tried to make it seem that way, and certainly not where Napoleon Solo was concerned—not after everything they had been through together.

“Illya?”

The Russian gave a start; he had forgotten that he was supposed to get the tea, and looked rather embarrassed as Napoleon stood in the doorway of the kitchen, checking on him.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Of course I am alright,” Illya said, now working on the tea. “I am not the one with amnesia, Napoleon.”

Napoleon looked as though he was about to say something, but decided against it. Instead, he decided to help Illya with the tea. Illya quietly accepted his help, but didn’t say anything, either.

At last, he carried the tea into the living room, sitting down on the couch beside Napoleon.

“This is good tea,” the American said. “I guess this is why I always like the tea you make.”

Illya gave another wan smile.

“And that is the only thing I make that you like,” he said. “You insist upon doing all of the cooking—and you have forbidden the making of soufflés in this flat.”

Napoleon blinked, confused.

“I don’t like soufflés?”

“Not mine.”

Napoleon still looked baffled, and Illya sighed; this just wasn’t working.

“Never mind that,” he said. “You said you wanted to know what happened to you to make you lose your memory?”

“Yeah; maybe going back to the moment I lost it might help me remember,” Napoleon said, with a nod. He shut his eyes, trying to concentrate. “Alright, tell me.”

“The two of us were captured while trying to find a THRUSH satrap somewhere in the Adirondacks. It was storming, and we were waylaid after the lightning betrayed our position. They kept us both in a soundproof room for a while—I guess there were lots of cars passing by, trying to get out of the storm, and they did not want them to hear us yelling for help. Then they came in and started questioning us about what we knew of their plans and what U.N.C.L.E. was planning in retaliation.”

“Did either of us talk?” Napoleon asked.

“Not at all,” Illya said, proudly. His face fell. “So that was why they administered the cocktail of drugs—in the hopes that we would be compelled to speak. However, even then, we didn’t seem to be telling them what they wanted to know; evidently, we were loopy enough that we were just telling jokes to each other and laughing.”

Napoleon gave a quiet smile now at the thought of that. It seemed… right.

“And so…” Illya sighed. “They moved to split us apart in the hopes that questioning us individually would help them achieve their end goal.”

“…And?” Napoleon prompted.

“And… We fought back. I was… rendered unconscious during the struggle as they tried to drag me out of the room, and you kept on fighting, evidently—and whatever happened during that struggle caused you to lose your memory.”

Napoleon mulled over this for a moment.

“They said in Medical that there was no physical trauma—so they didn’t hit me,” he said. “But I don’t understand how else I could have lost my memory, other than getting struck by lightning. But you say that no physical trauma means that I couldn’t have been hit—and I couldn’t have even heard the thunder because of the soundproofing.”

“That is correct,” Illya said.

Napoleon sighed now, staring at his feet.

“Maybe I should take a nap,” he said. “Maybe if I keep dreaming about what happened, things will clear up eventually.”

“Good idea,” Illya agreed, getting up and taking the teacups. “I will start getting supper ready. Since you are not the biggest fan of my cooking, I assure you that it will only be frozen meals.”

Napoleon chuckled in spite of himself.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he said, reclining on the couch. His smile faded after a moment as a thought came to him. “Illya…”

“ _Da_?”

“Look… supposing… Supposing the hypnotherapy doesn’t work… Supposing I… don’t get my memory back--”

“You do not know that for certain,” Illya insisted. “Rest now; there is no need to dwell on the possibility of you not remembering.”

“But, what if--?”

“Napoleon,” Illya said, gently. “Even if your memory does not return…” He trailed off. “I cannot promise that things will remain the same, but I can promise that I will not abandon you because of it.”

“…I can’t hold you to that,” Napoleon said. “I know this is painful for you.”

“It’s nothing that I cannot handle,” Illya insisted. “Now rest, Napoleon. Whether or not it helps your memory, you will still feel better.”

Napoleon protested at first, but then eventually slipped into a fitful sleep. Illya got a blanket from the bedroom and gently draped it on the American, sighing as he glanced back at him.

He would be true to his word and stay with him even if Napoleon didn’t recover his memories. Even if Napoleon didn’t remember them, the last eight years still happened, and after everything they had endured together, amnesia wasn’t going to tear the two of them apart as long as Illya could help it. If Napoleon didn’t remember, then Illya would simply have stories upon stories to tell him—stories that were all true. And at this point, Illya was just grateful that Napoleon’s personality had remained the same—that he wasn’t questioning why a Russian was so close to him, and that he was continuing to treat Illya almost the same as he had before he had lost his memory; the only difference was that Napoleon was noticeably awkward around him because of his missing memories—something that was to be expected.

Illya sighed and went back to the kitchen. Still, his acceptance of that didn’t mean that he was content with this. He wanted Napoleon to have his memories back—to remember what they’ve been through and what they shared, good and bad…

He was cut off by the phone ringing; quickly, he darted over to it and picked it up before the ringing could awaken Napoleon.

“Hello? Oh, Mr. Waverly… No, no change, alas. He’s resting now. I suppose there really isn’t anything else I can do. _Da_ , I told him the basics of what happened.” Illya sighed. “ _Nyet_ , I did not tell him what happened when I regained consciousness…” Illya looked over to Napoleon to make sure he was asleep and lowered his voice. “I have been trying to forget that myself; if it disturbs me, it is sure to stress him too much. _Da_ , I will keep you informed.”

Illya placed the phone cradle back down, trying to push away the memory of waking up with his own blood around him from a wounded left shoulder. Weakened from the blood loss, he had lapsed back into unconsciousness soon after and had only woken up again in Medical—with Napoleon, who was almost always found in a chair beside his hospital bed, conspicuously absent.

Illya pushed this thought aside, glancing at the phone and getting idea. Maybe… just maybe… if he called up Napoleon’s mother and had her speak to him, maybe hearing the first voice he ever heard would help bring back his memory?

Illya sighed and shook his head. He couldn’t worry her now—letting her know that something was wrong with her son. Indeed, she didn’t know the extent of the danger they faced on a regular basis. Perhaps if the hypnotherapy proved to be ineffective, then Illya would break the news to her. But, for now, there was no point in having her worry when there was still a chance of his recovery.

Illya now retreated to the kitchen again and began to heat up the frozen dinners. Once they were ready, he set them out on the small table; the smell of the food was enough to stir Napoleon awake.

“Did any memories return to you?” Illya asked.

Napoleon shook his head, looking so dejected that Illya felt his heart twist; the Russian found himself hoping (a rare event for his logic-driven mind) that Napoleon would be able to remember something soon, even if it was just one thing—a sign that all of his memories would within reach if he kept at it.

**************************************

The next several days passed the same way—Napoleon struggling to recall anything, but coming up empty. Still, Illya was patient and always at his side, trying to encourage Napoleon in spite of his frustrations.

Napoleon was otherwise normal, and after the second day, began to take over the cooking.

“How can I remember stuff like this but not events from my own past?” he asked, bitterly, as he worked on a stir-fry.

“Procedural memory is different from episodic memory,” Illya said, as he set the table. “But that is still a good sign that you remember these things.”

“Is it really? I know how to do things, but know so little about myself… It’s like I’m a robot or something.”

“I can assure you that you are very human,” Illya said. “If anyone is likely to be accused of being a robot, it is me.”

“You? I find that hard to believe—the way you’ve been looking out for me since I woke up…”

“My affections are not freely given,” Illya said. “And my reputation corresponds to that.”

Napoleon blinked in surprise and Illya turned his attention back to the table. He was soon startled by a yelp from Napoleon, followed by a crash and the sound of glass breaking.

“Are you alright?” Illya asked, seeing Napoleon picking up glass shards from the floor.

“Yeah, I didn’t realize… Well, I didn’t remember that top cupboard had the cooking sherry; it got all over me and then the whole bottle fell,” Napoleon said. He frowned at the large splotch of sherry on his shirt.

“I’ll clean up the glass,” Illya insisted. “You can go and change.”

“Are you sure?”

“ _Da_ ; go on—you don’t want to be reeking of sherry, do you? Not with you dousing yourself in bay rum as it is…”

Napoleon managed a smile again and headed to his closet to change. He was buttoning up his fresh shirt when he noticed something on the closet shelf that looked like some sort of photo album.

He took the album down from the shelf and sat down on the bed, paging through it. The older photos in the beginning were clearly him from a younger age—surrounded by people that must have been old friends and family. They were followed by photos of him slightly older and alone—obviously after he had just left home. And it was after a while longer that Illya started showing up in the pictures—sometimes alone, but most of them with him. Even though his memories still weren’t coming back to him, Napoleon could resist smiling; though he certainly hadn’t doubted Illya when he said that they had been close, the photos provided comfort of the fact that his words had been true.

Napoleon paused as he turned a leaf of the album and found himself staring at a set of Polaroids—all of them were of Illya on rollerskates, dressed in sequined clothes and wearing eyeliner and eyeshadow—and his hair was sparkling as though there was glitter in it.

Napoleon’s grin widened and he took one of the Polaroids with him back to the kitchen.

“Hey, Illya? What was this about?”

Illya glanced at the Polaroid and froze, letting out a gasp of unbridled shock.

“Where did you get that!?” he hissed, glaring at the photo. “I thought I had burned them all!”

“…Ah, so I must never have told you that I took these—this,” Napoleon hastily corrected himself.

Illya slowly turned to glare at him.

“There are… _more_ of these?”

“Hmm? Oh, I wouldn’t know; I can’t remember,” Napoleon bluffed.

Illya made a grab for the Polaroid, but Napoleon yanked it away.

“You’d better let me hang onto this, Illya; it might be the key that unlocks my memory!” he said.

“Ha! Find another key—one that is not at the expense of my dignity!”

He made another grab, and Napoleon, attempting to stop him, tried to hold him back by clamping a hand down on Illya’s left shoulder. The effect was instantaneous; Illya let out a cry and pulled away from Napoleon, clutching at his shoulder as he cringed in pain.

Napoleon froze, horrified.

“I… I didn’t mean…” He stared at his own hand for a moment before turning back to Illya. “Oh, Illya, I’m so sorry…!”

“It is not your fault… I sprained it cleaning last evening,” Illya lied. “It was still a little sore this morning; I did not think it was worth mentioning.” He looked away, not meeting Napoleon’s gaze. “Let’s have lunch; we can go for a walk afterwards. The fresh air will do you some good.”

Napoleon kept apologizing frequently throughout the meal, still looking horrified that he had done such a thing.

“I told you, Napoleon; I am fine now,” Illya insisted, as he cleared the table after they had finished. “And I know you did not mean me any harm; I do not hold it against you.”

Napoleon nodded, slipping on his suitjacket as he and Illya now headed outside to walk off lunch.

“I’m glad you don’t,” Napoleon said, sincerely.

“I will, however, want those Polaroids. Though I must say that I am impressed that you kept the knowledge of their existence a secret from me for this long.”

“You know, you never did explain to me why you were dressed like that,” Napoleon said, with a grin.

“For a mission. I can assure you that I would never dress like that for anything else,” Illya insisted.

“I’m almost sorry to hear that,” Napoleon.

“What do you mean by almost? Trust me, if you had your memory, you would definitely be sorry to hear—”

A loud CRACK and the sound of a bullet ricocheting off of the wall just feet in front of them cause the both of them to stop in their tracks. It was Illya who recovered first, grabbing Napoleon’s wrist and running into the nearest alley.

“Hide behind that dumpster,” Illya ordered, as he sought refuge behind a trash can a couple yards in front of the dumpster, drawing his Special and preparing to defend both Napoleon and himself. “They shall be here in a moment…”

“Who is it? THRUSH?” Napoleon asked, hiding behind the dumpster as Illya instructed, wishing he had a weapon; Waverly had instructed—and justifiably so—that Napoleon was not allowed to handle his weapon until he recovered.

“It must be; they clearly have not finished with us,” Illya said, quickly checking to make sure he had enough sleeping darts loaded.

Within moments, the THRUSH sniper had darted into the alley and a firefight between him and Illya commenced.

“Give it up, Kuryakin!” the sniper taunted. “You are expendable; all THRUSH wants is Solo—surrender him to us and you can leave!”

Illya responded with something in his native tongue that was clearly a refusal. And Napoleon could only watch as the fight persisted.

And as the sounds of gunfire continued, Napoleon’s eyes widened in sudden, horrified realization.

_Not thunder…. That wasn’t thunder I heard just before I lost my memory… That was a gunshot! But… I didn’t have any wounds on me when I woke up. If I hadn’t been shot, then why…?_

Napoleon’s thoughts trailed off as the THRUSHie’s next shot knocked Illya’s Special out of his hand. Illya let out a yelp of alarm. And as Napoleon saw the Russian cringe and saw the gun go skittering down the alley, his eyes widened further as the scene in the THRUSH satrap returned to him now with shocking clarity in an instant—

_Both he and Illya had been loopy from the drugs, but the moment the door of the soundproof room had opened and the THRUSHies arrived to separate them, they both caught each other’s eye and, despite their drugged states, had fought against their captors with all of their strength, in spite of how slow and sluggish the drugs had made them._

_The THRUSHies had gotten frustrated quickly; two of them had grabbed Napoleon, with one of them attempting to press the pressure points on his neck to subdue him. But as this had been going on, the THRUSHie trying to hold Illya had found himself getting bitten on the arm by the still-fighting Russian._

_After letting out a roar of pain, the THRUSHie had knocked Illya out with the handle of his gun._

_“We only need one of them in order to get the information we want,” he had snarled, and had aimed the gun at the unconscious Illya._

_And that was when it had happened—the deafening crack, the smell that Napoleon now recalled as the smell of blood, which had been Illya’s blood that had begun to seep through his left shoulder, and the scream, which had been his own cry of “NO!” as he had desperately tried--and failed--to reach his wounded partner’s side as the pressure on his pressure points rendered him unconscious as well…_

The recollection of that single memory brought back the others in a cascade—all in the moments it had taken Illya’s gun to skitter over towards him. He looked up towards the fight to see the THRUSHie now aim at Illya, who was still refusing to surrender, instead gambling on a throwing knife from his pocket. But the THRUSHie didn’t seem at all concerned by the knife as he tightened the touch of his finger on the trigger.

 _No!_ Napoleon silently vowed, as he grabbed Illya’s gun. _Not again! Not this time!_

He got the THRUSH sniper first, who collapsed to the ground, tranquilized by the dart. Napoleon glared coldly at his unmoving form before scrambling back to Illya’s side.

“Napoleon…!” Illya exclaimed. “You got him…”

The Russian trailed off as the American now unbuttoned his shirt and pulled back the left side of it, staring at the bandages over Illya’s left shoulder. Napoleon exhaled, concerned to see that the wound was beginning to bleed through the bandages, having been reopened during the fight.

Napoleon now looked up, right into Illya’s eyes.

“So that’s why it hurt you when I grabbed your shoulder earlier. Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

Illya glanced down, averting his gaze.

“You heard Mr. Waverly make me promise not to divulge any information that would stress you and perhaps impair the recovery of your memory—doctors’ orders.”

“Well, those doctors don’t know what they’re talking about,” Napoleon insisted. “And it’s not as though we haven’t bent Mr. Waverly’s rules before; there was time when we were up against Robespierre…” He trailed off as Illya’s head sharply turned back up to stare at him.

“Say that again…” the Russian said.

“Robespierre—when he was trying to level the vineyards…” Napoleon trailed off yet again as he realized that his memories had returned with full clarity. “…I remember!”

“How much do you remember?” Illya asked, hardly daring to hope.

“…Everything,” Napoleon said, his heart practically racing with excitement. “It’s all back—I’ve got it all back! I know who I am now—and you…!” He looked to Illya and grinned, broadly. “ _Tovarisch_ …!”

Illya finally grinned back in relief. All was right with the world once again.

**************************************

One call over Channel D later, the THRUSH sniper was taken prisoner, Mr. Waverly was informed of Napoleon’s spontaneous recovery, and the two agents were soon back in their apartment, with Napoleon applying fresh bandages to Illya’s shoulder wound.

“The irony of this is not escaping me,” Illya said. “If I had told you about my injury sooner, it would have brought back your memory. You were right about the stress being beneficial to your recovery.”

“So, apparently, even when I can’t remember myself, I still know myself,” Napoleon mused. He tied off the bandages and looked satisfied. “There; that’s better. …You know, Illya, I have to thank you.”

“For what?” Illya asked, as he slipped his white shirt back on, but opting not to button it up.

“For being there when I couldn’t remember anything. It was a really frightening experience, but you being there helped. A lot.”

“I am glad I could help you,” Illya sighed. “Considering I am the reason for your memory loss in the first place…”

“That’s _not_ your fault,” Napoleon insisted. “That was all on THRUSH; the shock of seeing you get shot—possibly killed—right in front of me without being able to help you…” He shook his head. “It’s a miracle that grunt missed your heart and got your shoulder instead. Of course, you don’t believe in miracles.”

Illya shook his head.

“We can discuss that later; right now, there is still one important matter left unsettled,” Illya said. He held out his hand. “The Polaroids?”

“Oh…” Napoleon said, and then he suddenly feigned a weary look, passing a hand over his eyes. “You know, Illya, that’s the one bit of memory that didn’t return to me—exactly where I had put those Polaroids. Sorry; can’t help you there.”

Illya gave him a long, dark look—one that only increased the intensity of the mischievous smirk forming on Napoleon’s face.

“How convenient,” the Russian muttered. “Well, you remember, of course, that I am an expert agent, and will find them myself eventually?”

“Yes, but I happen to be an expert agent, as well,” Napoleon countered. He was already thinking of good hiding places for the Polaroids.

Illya’s expression suddenly went blank for a moment.

“ _Da_ ; you are,” he said. He looked back into Napoleon’s face for a moment, taking in the recognition in his partner’s eyes—the recognition that he had missed seeing for the past two weeks and was relieved to see again after so long—and, in its own way, now completed Illya once again. “Napoleon… welcome back.”

Napoleon smiled and nodded.

“It’s good to be back,” he said, sincerely. “And now that we’ve got the old team together again, it’s only a matter of time before we’re out in the field once more, doing what we do best.”

Illya nodded.

 _Da. Together again_ , he mentally repeated.

He couldn’t have asked for anything more.


End file.
